My dad often makes a lunch for me to take to work. In his mind, I am seven years old and really into books and ballet and classical music and math. Thankfully, I still eat like aseven-year-old, so things work out well. The best part of this lunch-making tradition is that my dad always includes a Post-It Poem, his corny and rhyming way of telling me he loves me. Are you gagging yet? Me too. It's awesome.

I was majorly bummed on Thursday, however, when I opened my oversized Microsoft lunchbox to find a bagel, a banana, Pop-Tarts, and a granola bar . . . but NO POST-IT NOTE!

My world came to a screeching halt, and I started running through everything I had said to my father that morning. Sadly, that was a bit of a dead end, since our conversations are always the same before noon.

"Good morning, Rach!" my father will sing merrily.

"Mmf."

Had my morning grunt been too harsh? Was he finally sick of it? Did he no longer love me?

I realized that he had probably been too busy to write a note, so I settled down and ate my lunch. I pushed the issue out of my head for the rest of the day, pleasantly distracted by workplace drama and a constant stream of jazz music.

My mother and I walked out the door at 5 p.m., grumbling about an ugly brochure or the humidity or how I need to hurry up and marry rich already. Our rant was cut short by the sound of my cell phone chirping. I pulled it out of my purse and groaned. "1 New Message; Dad." This was bound to be cheesy.

(Animated Image)

There was no timeTo make a rhymeAnd stuff it in your lunch

So here's a noteThat u can quoteI love you a whole bunch!!!

Dad

Lo and behold, it was really cheesy. Too cheesy for most mere mortals. A level of cheesy only attained by fathers and seniors. But I'll be darned if I don't love every cheesy little line of every dorky little poem.

Thanks, Dad. You're the best.

I have mad skills in penmanship, playing piano, knowing exactly when to use a semicolon, organizing bookshelves, and befriending unfriendly cats.